


Knowing

by Synesthene



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abuse, Angst, M/M, Minor Violence, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-04-04
Updated: 2006-04-04
Packaged: 2017-10-29 05:57:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/316535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Synesthene/pseuds/Synesthene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's like throwing knives at your reflection and loving that secret thrill that comes from the shattered glass biting into flesh. Dripsplash, a dose of delicious reality in a scarlet streak on glistening porcelain<br/>A short drabblefic.POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Knowing

**Author's Note:**

> An old fic I'm cross-posting from my fanfiction.net account until I can get my newer works into some semblance of order. Originally useless, painful day-dreaming on my part…but I was feeling particularly low and felt the need to self-medicate with writing. Un-beta'd, so all the mistakes are my own.

He's smiling in his sleep again, that sweet little quirk of the lips that means he's having pleasant dreams.

I want to hit him.

The temptation is so strong I'm forced to cross my arms and look away before I give in. We've been together for so long, in this deceptively lavish abode, that I can hardly remember why we agreed to it to begin with. I hate him as much now as I ever did.

There's a perversity in this relationship that's sharp and bitter, but oh so addictive. It's like throwing knives at your reflection and loving that secret thrill that comes from the shattered glass biting into flesh. Drip-splash, a dose of delicious reality in a scarlet streak on glistening porcelain.

He shifts slightly, his skin whispering across the silken sheets as his face turns to mine. It's only another moment before his eyes blink open and lock onto my face. He isn't drowsy at all. His gaze slides away from mine and focuses on my arms, a lock of that perfectly disheveled, raven hair sliding across his forehead like a lover's caress. He doesn't seem to notice as he reaches out, hooking one strong, calloused hand around my wrist and tugging. I'm surprised to feel the slick heat of his tongue glide along the pale, delicate skin of my inner arm, and I hiss at the sudden stab of pain. His lips are stained red when he pulls away. I'd managed to cut myself with my own fingernails while holding so tightly to my anger.

The brush of his lips against my cheek is not unexpected, but leaves me branded with a kiss of my own blood, like morbid lipstick from my own personal hellish concubine.

I want to hit him again.

He lets me.

The resounding crack echoes around the room and I can see the reddening imprint of my hand on his perfect golden skin. His eyes are glowing in the dark. Those maddening, kitty-cat green eyes that make me want to scream, want to fight, want to hate, want to submit; he devours me with those eyes and I defy him. I want him to break me, over and over again, but I'll be damned if I ever tell him that. I'll never tell him a thing.

His hands are in my hair and his lips against mine with bruising intensity. We don't make love; we paint hatred on a canvas of flesh with teeth and tongues and fingernails. I scream when he bites me and retaliate by raking my nails down his back. The corded muscles shift beneath his skin at the pain. He never makes a sound.

Everything about the two of us together is intense and cruel and oh so very _real_. Neither of us suffers from any delusions about what we really are to one another. We'll look like battle victims in the morning.

"I don't want this anymore," I murmur as we lay tangled around one another, body fluids of many kinds cooling and congealing between us.

"Mhm."

"We have to stop."

"I know."

"I should leave."

He doesn't bother to respond to that statement. He knows me better than that. Arms that are lined with scratches and bruises wind around me a little tighter, and his head is tucked beneath my chin. I don't even try to move. I don't want to move. His touch is like fire, and I'm lost in a snowstorm. Without it I'd die, even if he burns me, brands me, consumes me. I hate him, and I need him. He gazes up at me through the length of his thick eyelashes with a knowing look. We understand one another perfectly. The melancholy calm of the moment before vanishes like so much smoke, and I'm angry again. Not at him, but at myself for wanting him; for being unable to leave this…whatever it is.

I want to break him, possess him, mark him, claim him, _burn him_ just the same way.

And with a fiery gaze and a blood-stained smile, he lets me.


End file.
